John Keating: Then and Now
by Wilburetta
Summary: This is DPS told from Mr. Keating's point of view. As he goes through his year at Welton, he remembers his own time as a student there.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, please review!

**John Keating: Then and Now**

I rushed down Welton Academy's main hall, overwhelmed with memories of a school I hadn't set foot in in 15 years. _Demerits, Mr. Keating, _I thought ruefully as I approached the door to the Welton conference room. I was my first staff meeting, and I was late. I opened the door softly and tried slip in quietly.

With the _click_ of the door latch, thirty-one teachers turned to stare at me. Dr. Nolan glared at the man who had interrupted his speech. "Ah, Mr. Keating. You can't blame this one on getting lost."

"No, sir. I apologize." I put my briefcase down and slid into an available seat.

"As I was saying, this is a _preparatory _school. This means college. You are not parents, friends, or psychologists. You are teachers. I expect the boys' days filled with lessons and their nights filled with homework.

"Now, if we turn to page one of the Welton Academy Teachers' Handbook…"

I smiled. _Nothing has changed._

I sat once again in the first pew of the chapel, watching the 'Light of Knowledge' being passed from boy to boy. Only this time, I was a teacher, dressed in a dark blue robe and not allowed to laugh at Nolan's speech as I had once laughed at those just like it from my Headmaster. Instead, I sat there trying to look solemn, and stood up when my name was called, facing the boys and their parents. Did any of them care? Did any of them _want_ to be there?

Later I took my meager belongings to the Teacher's Quarters. I settled into a small room and took in my surroundings. A desk and a bookcase, a dresser and a bed. The walls white and dreary, the curtains brown and dusty. It was exactly like everything else at Welton: dull and made for studying.

I heard a knock at my open door and turned around. It was another teacher, short, a little pudgy, but looking at me with a kind expression. "Hello, I'm Ian McAlistair."

"John Keating." I shook his hand.

"Bit daunting on the first day, isn't it?"  
"Yeah, a little. It was more daunting when I was a student, though." He chuckled.

"I imagine it was. But I see it in your eye."

"What?"

"Every new teacher that comes to this school has it. The 'I'm going to make students care about my subject. I'm going to change their lives,' look."

"Well, I do like to think that I have _some _influence."

"You do, John, you do. But they're better off without fantasies."

"You really believe so?"

"Yes … But what am I telling you this for? You know it, you attended this school! I just came in to wish you good luck and tell you that Dr. Nolan doesn't allow tea kettles in teacher's rooms." We both glanced at my kettle. "So I'd hide that."

"Thanks." I regarded this hard-hearted realist with some optimism. "I'll see you at supper?"

"Yes." He left the room and I continued unpacking, thinking about our conversation.

The next day was my first day of teaching. I was nervous but managed to make it through to the afternoon by following the curriculum left to me by the previous teacher. It was the senior years I was worried about, there was so little time for them, they were nearly robots already. I wanted to show them that there was a life beyond Welton- beyond homework and rules and demerits. I sat in the Teacher's Lounge pretending to grade papers but really watching the clock until 8th period. At long last, it was 1:45. I picked up my briefcase and headed to the 2nd floor. On the way, I passed through the Main Hall, with all the pictures of founders and valedictorians and graduates.

I passed by my own class picture and couldn't help glancing at it. _Samuel Roberts…Thomas Helmer…William Strongfield…Maxwell Cannon…John Keating…_I saw my face, smiling and eager, and felt my eyes well up with tears. I remembered my time hear, how much I had wanted to break out.

And then the bell rang, telling me I was late yet again. _I never was on time…why break the tradition now? _I thought. And after all, I had just figured out my first lesson for the Juniors.

I walked into the classroom whistling a tune from my college marching band. The students quieted down immediately, and were all staring at me like I had gone mad. I promptly walked right back out of the room, hoping they would follow me. When no one did, I popped my head back in.

I kept walking until we returned to the Main Hall. The students were gathered around, all looking confused and slightly uncomfortable. I began calling roll call, but honestly, who would skip on the first day? So I went to the more important part of my lesson.

"Carpe diem. Who knows what that means?" I asked, hoping they had retained more of their Latin than I had.

"Seize the day," answered a red-haired scholar.

"Very good. Now, go look at the pictures. Oh, except the class of 1945, demerits for anyone who looks at that one." I saw a boy smirk and go closer to it, later I would learn that he was Charlie Dalton. "See all those distinguished looking men? Impressive aren't they? But you see, gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils.

"Take Headmaster Golit, for example. Dead. Nothing left of him but a plaque and a picture. Or my old roommate Sam. He lives in Minnesota, works at an insurance company. Every night he comes home and read the paper. He goes to bed at exactly ten o'clock and waked up at exactly six. Once a month his mother comes over for dinner. And that it, that's the life of one of these boys. Think about it, would _you _like that life?"

"Look at the pictures. Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Did they wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable?

"Seize the day. Take it, and make it your own. No one is going to have to live this life but you. Not your parents, not your teachers or your friends. Do what you can with this life or else be remembered only for you face among thousands in this hall." The students scrutinized the photos more carefully. Soon after, the bell rang, knocking all of us out of our trains of thought. "Class dismissed."

The next day at lunch I was sauntering around campus, supervising and enjoying the fresh air. "Mr. Keating?" I heard. "Sir?" I kept on walking, hoping this boy would catch on to my game. He did. "O Captain, my Captain?" I whirled around to find Neil Perry and his friends.

"Gentlemen?"

"We were just looking at your old annual," Neil explained. He hands it to me, an exact copy of the one in my room upstairs, minus the crude drawings and comments.

"No, that's not me," I deny, and smile fondly at the memories. Neil leaned down to my level.

"Sir, what was the Dead Poets Society?" _They want freedom_, I realized, but warned myself that they might not be prepared for it.

"I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that." I was, after all, here to help them get into college, not to encourage their spirits.

"Why, what was it?" I decided to give the boys a chance.

"Gentlemen, can you keep a secret?" The all huddled around me and I felt like Socrates spouting his wisdom. "The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see we'd gather at turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work its magic." I could see them becoming wrapped up in the idea of the Dead Poets Society. It was an idea that had led to wondrous evenings and a sense of purpose as well as failed tests and long afternoons.

"You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?" asked Knox Overstreet incredulously.

"No Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just "guys", we weren't a Greek organization, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created, gentlemen, not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?" I saw the boys enchanted and decided to leave it at that. I glanced at the annual still and my hands and handed it back to Neil. "Thank you, Mr. Perry, for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that, especially my picture."

That afternoon I entered the top floor of the dormitories, on my way to Neil's room. I gazed at the unchanged yellow walls, thinking that time had stood still. I could see myself as a sixth-former, rushing up the stairs to change for soccer or go to a school newspaper meeting. I could almost hear my roommate Sam working out a problem aloud in our room.

When I got to the top, I stood stock-still. Some of my best memories took place here. No boys were here at this time and I could have stood there all day, staring into the distance, had Dr. Hager not come out of his room. Dr. Hager had been a first-year teacher during my last year of school, and my friends and I had never greatly respected him. I felt awkward now, when we were theoretically equal, to be meeting him in the place of so many of my misdemeanors. "Dr. Hager, hello!"

"Hi, John. What can I do for you?" He asked courteously, albeit a little suspiciously. I gathered he remembered me from earlier times.

"I was just returning a book to Neil Perry." I held up Five Centuries of Verse. "Can you point me to his room?"

"Of course." He walked over to one of the plain wooden doors and opened it. "Looks like detention for Mr. Perry and Mr. Anderson." I entered the room and put the book on the desk with all the achievement pins on it. The other was empty save for a small picture of a mother, a father, and an older boy who looked remarkably like Todd. The room was relatively clean, with only a sweater and some pencil shavings that had missed the garbage on the floor.

"Just for this?"

"Yes. You have to keep an eagle's eye on them, John." I remembered my room, and the mornings of hastily stuffing things under the bed and shoving my suitcase in front of them. It had always made the room seem more like a cell.

"But still, they have to _live_ in this room. It should have some kind of live look, don't you think so?"

"I do think so, as a matter of fact. But those are the rules."

"You might bend the rules sometimes."

"Oh, you youngsters. You don't understand. I always wanted a son, and here I am in charge of fifteen boys, but a father to none of them. They'll leave. They'll move on. And I'll still be here." I realized that Hager truly cared for the boys. I smiled sadly, waved to him, and left.

A few nights later, I sat by the window in my room, holding a pen and with the grade ten English essays before me. I couldn't grade papers, however. Instead, I was staring out into the blackness. All of a sudden, I noticed a flash of something, or someone, below. And then another. I turned off my lamp to get a better view and saw seven caped boys heading off campus in the direction of the stream, their flashlights lighting their way. My own memories of sneaking out in that same cape washed over me. The first meeting of the Dead Poets' Society…

"_Come on, Sam! Don't you want to get out? I'm sick of being stuck in Hell-tonl every single day!"_

"_John, where would we GO?"_

"_I don't know, the forest, the town, Tanzania, I don't care!"_

"_We would have to go far off campus to be truly safe. John, we can't go all the way to the woods!_

"_Yes we can! That's perfect! Let's go tonight. I'll tell the others." I heard a sigh behind me as I walked away, but I knew that my roommate took joy in being a pessimist. I quietly passed on the information to Will, Max, and Tom, who agreed to come. _

_At two AM that night we were rushing silently down the stairs. We had waited until we were sure the teacher's Thursday Night Poker Tournament had ended. The air outside was fresh and just a little bit chilly. I headed for the forest, knowing our refuge was in it somewhere._

_It was nearly three when we got to the river. It was freezing and to escape it Will crawled into a crack beneath the rocks. It turned out to be a small cave, and the rest of us went in after him. We had no matches that night so we sat in the light of our flashlights, all a bit awed at being out of school grounds and what the consequences would be if they found out we were missing._

"_So what are we supposed to do here, John?" demanded Max. _

"_I don't know."_

"_Does anyone have cigarettes?" asked Will. I searched my pockets._

"_No. Unless you want to make Roll-Your-Owns out of…" I turned the book over and looked at its cover, "Five Centuries of Verse."_

"_You have _poetry_ in your _pocket_?" asked Sam in amazement._

"_Well I had to do this English project on some 17th century poet. I had to sneak this out of the library because I hadn't paid my fines."_

"_Geez, John, how much are you up to?"_

"_I think I'm going to have to take a job in the dining hall after Graduation to pay it off…"_

"_Let me see that." Tom took the book from my hands and opened it. "'I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately.' Yup, that's what we did. 'I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.'" He looked up. "Will, I want to suck your marrow."_

"_You can kiss my butt." Will suggested, and we all laughed. _

"_We need a name." I said suddenly. "A name for when we're here."_

"_The Hellton Survivors," advised Sam._

"_The Tie Boys," put in Max. _

"_The Chemistry-Haters," added Will._

"_No, it needs to be something less school-y. Something away for the grades and the uniforms and the Four Pillars. Besides, Will, only you hate Chem."_

"_The Society of Poets," said Tom, still leafing through the book._

"_The Poets' Society," said Sam._

"_Dead Poets' Society," I interjected._

"_But _we're_ not dead," argued Max._

"_But _we're _not poets," I countered._

"_Okay, I hereby declare us the _Dead Poets' Society_," finalized Will. "Who'll drink to that?" Since it was 1945 and we were underage, none of us had alcohol. We all took a celebratory handful of the crystal-clear river-water instead and headed back to school, but the walls seemed shorter now. _


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, please review! Also, I;m trying not to make it exactly like the movie, so if some scenes are different, I meant it to be that way.

**Chapter two: A Change in Position**

As I taught Junior English the next day, I saw some exhausted-looking boys. Neil, Knox, Meeks, Pitts, Charlie, Cameron, Todd. I smiled and flung questions at them.

"A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don't use very sad, use…Come on Mr. Overstreet, you twerp."

"Morose?"

"Exactly! Now, language was developed for one endeavor, and that is…Mr. Anderson?...Come on, are you a man or an amoeba?" Todd was painfully shy. I didn't know at the time what poetic spirit lay inside of him, but I did know that this was one lost, hurt, and unhappy boy. I let this one go. "Mr. Perry?" I saw Neil jump out of his sleep-filled reverie.

"Uh…to… communicate?"

"No! To woo women. Now, today we're going to be talking about Shakespeare." I heard their groans and sighs and remembered how I had felt at being taught dreary sonnets and how to write in iambic pentameter.

"_Today we will learn about the great master: William Shakespeare." Our class groaned internally as Harris assigned someone to hand out copies of Hamlet. "He was an amazing linguist, able to use rhyme and meter to give a comic yet somewhat realistic look at that time period. Please note, you will be required to present a soliloquy from Shakespeare at the end of the month. One mark off per error or hesitation."_ This time it was my turn to come back to reality.

"I know, a lot of you look forward to this about as much as you look forward to root canal work. But we're going to talk about Shakespeare as someone who writes something very interesting. Forget rhyme scheme and metaphors for a moment. What does he write _about_? This is what we're here to consider."

A week later, after thoroughly discussing Shakespeare's themes and reasons, we had indeed come to looking at his dreaded writing style. The moment I walked in the room, I could see the boys' attention lost even before I had had a chance to capture it. So I walked to the front, put my Shakespeare on my desk, refilled the chalk on the blackboard, and turned around. I walked calmly onto my chair and on top of my desk.

"Why do I stand here?" _That _woke the boys up. "Anybody?"

"To feel taller." Suggested Charlie Dalton.

"No, thank you for playing anyway. I stand on my desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way." I turned around slowly, saw my pictures of Walt Whitman and Einstein and all my students. They looked smaller. Small and unimportant, like they must feel. Like I felt at seventeen. "You see, the world looks very different from up here." There was a small titter. "You don't believe me? Come see for yourselves, come on!" Dalton was the first one up and soon all the boys were making their way to stand on my desk. "Just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in a different way, even if it may seem silly, or wrong. You must strive to find your own voice because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." Don't be resigned to that! Break out!" The bell rang and I gathered my things. "Now, in addition to you essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own, an original work. To be delivered out loud, in front of the class, on Monday." I heard the groans and told myself not to expect much. I looked back and saw Todd Anderson. _He's going to have a hell of a bad time with this_, I thought. "Mr. Anderson, don't think I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you, you mole." He nearly fell off the desk.

That Saturday evening, I was on my way back from dinner when Ian McAlistair caught up with me. "John!"

"Ian, hello! How are you?"  
"Fine, fine. But Carl Hager broke his leg!"  
"What? How did that happen?"

"He was going down the stairs and he tripped. In any case, they sent me to send you to the Infirmary."

"Me?" Ian laughed, waving, and walked off in the direction of the Teacher's Quarters. I changed my course and headed for the Infirmary.

I made it to the building just as Hager was leaving. "Dr. Hager! Are you alright?"

"Just a scratch, John." Why did men always feel the need to be heroic, I wondered. "Would you mind taking over the Junior dorm while I'm in the hospital?"

"Of course…Can I do anything else for you?"

"No. Just don't be too easy on them."

"Demerits for everyone, you know me." Dr. Hager smiled at that, and I watched as the paramedics wheeled him out.

I went to my room and packed a few necessities, and proceeded to the Juniors floor.

The boys were supposed to be doing homework quietly in their rooms, but who was I to reinforce this rule on a Saturday night? I had certainly never done homework on Saturday nights.

I went into Pitts' and Meek's room and found them working on their illegal radio. When they saw me, they shoved it under Pitts' bed. "'Mr. Keating," they both greeted.

" Good evening, gentlemen. How is radio-free America?"

"Uh…well…we, um…" they stammered.

"I would try the roof if I happened to posses a radio, personally." They stared at me, unsure of whether to laugh or be dreading a punishment. I whistled inconspicuouslyand I walked out of their room and into Dalton's and Cameron's.

"Congratulations, Mr. Cameron, I suspect you are the only one on this floor actually _doing_ homework." Both Cameron and Charlie looked up. Cameron frowned and Charlie smirked.

"I assume you're all done, Mr. Dalton?"

"I will be on Monday, Captain."

"Good." I began to walk out. "But I expect your English work to be your own." I could hear Charlie laughing. I remembered frantic Sunday nights where I would have to plead with Sam to let me copy his homework. By ten o'clock he wouldrelent but I would have to stay up half the night copying the entirety. There were never Dead Poets Society meetings on Sunday nights, as many other members were doing the same thing.

I entered Todd and Neil's room. Only Todd was present, writing what I believed was my poetry assignment. "Hello, Mr. Anderson." He looked up, frightened.

"Sir…h-hi." I glanced at the picture on his desk.

"Are those your parents?"

"Yeah…yes, sir…and my brother…"

"Oh, well, where are you?"

"I'm…well…I was…uhm..."

"It's alright, never mind...Where's Neil tonight?"

"…He's…uh…uhm…in…the bathroom?"

"Ahhh. Well, carry on then." I released Todd and continued visiting the other dorms. Just as I reached the last room, I saw Neil rushing down the hall.

"Mr. Perry." He froze.

"Captain! Uhm…Hello…I was just…" He reminded me of Todd and I chuckled inwardly.

"Doing some laps?"

"Uh... yes. I wanted to be prepared for our rowing tournament tomorrow."

"Very admirable. Stay fit, Neil." I winked and walked on. Neil sighed in relief and went into his room.

The weekend wore on and by Monday Dr. Hager was back in his room, albeit on crutches. I went back to my quarters, leaving Hager alone with the restless group of philosophers. I sat down on my lumpybed and morosely thought of my old roommate and the other original members of the Dead Poets Society, tears welling up in my eyes._Men don't cry_, my father's refrain rang through my mind. I made tea with my illegal kettle and spent the night looking through my senior yearbook, reminding myself that my father was not, as I had thought when I was young, always right.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: This is my first fanfiction, please review! And sorry this part is so short.

**Chapter Three: Triumph of the Imagination**

On Monday afternoon I walked in to a quiet classroom of well-behaved boys who looked a little green. _This must be what every other teacher faces every day_, I thought. I commenced the class right by collecting their essays. I then asked the question all my students were dreading, "who would like to go first?" Students looked everywhere but me.

Suddenly the door banged open and Charlie Dalton entered, breathing hard. He glanced up. "Sorry, Captain."

"That's all right, Mr. Dalton. I'm sure all of your classmates will thank you for this later. You're up first for poetry." He put his books down on his desk and walked up to the platform with an instrument case. He opened it and pulled out a gleaming metal saxophone. Without hesitating, Charlie put it to his lips.

A beautiful, melodious sound sprang from the saxophone. Charlie played with confidence, picking out a subtle, chaotic melody. I leaned against the window ledge and thought, _I should have known._ He ended the sonata to cheers from his classmates and looked back at me. "You didn't say it had to be written."

I chuckled. "You're right, I didn't. What inspired you to compose this piece?"

"Freedom," he answered seriously, but with a toss of the head.

I could guess all too well what he meant and didn't want to get into philosophical discussions about caves or poetry when Dr. Nolan could enter at any moment. "I thought I heard a longing note in there somewhere." I faced the class once more. "Mr. Dalton's work, though not written, clearly had feeling. And that, boys, is the essence of poetry. Not that it's beautiful or perfect but that one feels changed or moved after reading it. Convey how you feel.

"Now, who feels courageous enough to follow?" I looked around the room once more, finding all still as stone but one. "Mr. Overstreet?" Knox stood up shakily and walked to the front. He took a breath and began reading, words pouring out like he couldn't wait to get rid of them.

"I see a sweetness in her smile.

Bright light shines from her eyes.

But life is complete; contentment is mine,

Just knowing that...

Just knowing that she's alive" Knox looked up dejectedly. "I'm sorry, Captain, it's stupid." A few students were laughing. Knox's attempt was fair, and I felt sorry for him.

"No! No. It was a good effort. You touched on one of the major themes: love. A major theme not only in poetry, but in life. Mr. Hopkins, you were laughing. You're up."

Hopkins pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

"The cat sat on the mat." He smirked as his classmates giggled. That was Will would have done when I was at school, and he would have paid dearly for it, too. I let this one pass lightly, knowing how hard it was to be sixteen and to present your own poetry.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hopkins. You have the first poem to ever have a negative score on the Pritchard scale. I don't mind that your poem had a simple theme, sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things, like a cat, or a flower, or rain. You see poetry can come from anything with the stuff of revelation in it. Just don't let your poems be ordinary." Hopkins looked a little remorseful so I moved on. "Now, who's next? Mr. Anderson. I see you sitting there in agony. Come on, Todd, step up. Let's put you out of your misery."

After a moment's hesitation he uttered quietly, "I-I didn't do it. I didn't write a poem." He looked scared, ready to be punished. I raised my eyebrows.

"Mr. Anderson thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, Todd?" He rolled his eyes as if to say _I'm sure embarrassed now! _ "And that's your worst fear. Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal."

I went to the chalkboard and began to write one of my favourite quotations. "I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world. Uncle Walt again. Now, for those of you who don't know, a _yawp_ is a loud cry or yell. Now, Todd. I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric yawp." He rolled his eyes again, shy and uncomfortable. "C'mon, you can't yawp sitting down! Let's go. C'mon. Up. Got to get in yawping stance."

"A yawp?" He asked, incredulous, as the class around him sniggered.

"No, not just 'a yawp.' A barbaric _yawp_."

"Yawp," he said, noncommittally. The class continued laughing.

"C'mon, louder." _Let go of your control, Todd! _I prayed.

"Yawp," he said a bit louder, still mortified.

"Oh, that's a mouse! C'mon, louder!" I could see what I was putting him through, but could also see that it might lead to great things.

"Yawp!" he said again, a little annoyed now.

"Oh, good God, boy, yell like you mean it!" _Lose it, Todd! Get angry!_ He needed this.

"_YAWP!"_

"There it is." There was something to be said about Todd Anderson. "You see, you have a barbarian in you after all." He started to walk back to his seat. "Now, you don't get away that easy. There's a picture of Uncle Walt up there. What does he remind you of? Don't think, answer!"

Looking slightly more comfortable now that he didn't have to say the word 'yawp,' Todd answered, "a m-madman."

"What kind of madman? Don't think about it, just answer again."

"A crazy madman."

"Oh, you can do better than that. Free up your mind, use your imagination. Say the first thing that pops into your head even if it's total gibberish. C'mon." _Give your imagination another try , Todd. You can do it!_

"A-a sweaty-toothed madman."

"Good God, boy, there's a poet in you after all!" _I knew it! _"There. Close your eyes…clooose them. Now, describe what you see."

"I-I close my eyes…" I put my hands over his eyes to let him forget everything else. For the moment it was just him, Todd Anderson, breaking free.

"Yes?"

"Uh, and this image floats beside me."

"A sweaty-toothed madman!" _You have the spirit Todd, show it to me once more._

"A sweaty-toothed madman, with a stare that pounds my brain."

"Ah, that's excellent! Now, give him action, make him do something."

"His hands reach out and choke me…"

"That's it, wonderful…" I let go of him and watched Todd find himself.

"And all the time he's mumbling…"

"What's he mumbling?"

"Mumbling truth…truth…like a blanket that always leaves you feet cold!" The others started laughing. _No! Be quiet! C'mon, Todd, continue!_

"Forget them, forget them! Stay with the blanket, tell me about that blanket!"

"You-you push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough…you kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us…" He was completely in his own world now. I stepped back to watch the miracle before me. "From the moment we enter crying to-to the moment we leave dying, it'll j-just cover your face as you wail, and cry, and scream." Todd opened his eyes. I looked intently at him, amazed. He wore the same expression.

After a few seconds of silence, I heard clapping and cheering. Todd started to smile awkwardly. I walked up to him. He still looked in a state of shock. "Don't you forget this." _Ever. _

The bell rang before any more poems could be read. "Dismissed." I watched the students exit the classroom, many patting Todd on the back. I whispered at his retreating form the lines of a favourite John Keats' quote, "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on." Something was changing in Todd Anderson.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: Sorry for uploading twice, I changed it just a little bit. This is my first fanfiction, please review! This part doesn't actually advance the plot much, I just thought it was a nice idea.

**Chapter Four: I Will Not Deceive**

Reveling in Todd's poetic success, I left campus for town. I needed stamps and more tea bags. From my car window, I saw a student in a Welton Uniform coming up the road on a bicycle. It was Neil Perry. He turned onto a side street and pedaled faster. I frowned, thinking _I should report this._ Neil would get into heaps of trouble from any other teacher. But then I remembered the times I had been given a second chance or a soft punishment.

_It was the night before our math test on conics. Four friends and myself were studying in the Common Room. I was lucky because math came somewhat naturally to me and required little effort. Mostly I just helped the others._

_"John, what is a hyperbola and how is it different from a parabola?" Tom mentioned two of the graphing curves we had to know. I sat down and explained it to him, sighing inwardly because I had been explaining the same thing for two weeks. Tom worked so hard but he would never be a math prodigy._

_By the end of the night, Tom was in despair. I tried to calm him, knowing I couldn't do much until the test was over. _

_"I can't do this," he lamented. _

_"Yes, you can. 'Men are born to succeed, not to fail.'" I maintained. Tom stared at me. I pointed at the ever-present Five Centuries of Verse. "Henry David Thoreau." He rolled his eyes._

_"You read that too much." I looked across the table at the others. Will was reading an illegal magazine, he never studied. Sam was finishing his own review, all neatly done and perfect. Max was serving detention for being caught off campus. I smiled, remembering the rest of us hiding behind trees as our dorm-master yelled at Max. It had happened to all of us at one point or another._

_At lights-out, we went to bed, dreading the test._

_As it turned out, the test was not that hard. After writing it, I caught up with Tom. "It wasn't too bad, eh?" He looked down._

_"It was alright…I have to go, uhm, get my chemistry book." He shuffled away uncomfortably. I wondered what was going on, but chalked to it up to relief and walked to my next class._

_A few days later I was just coming to math when the teacher, Mr. Morrison, called out, "Misters Keating and Helmer, see me at the end of class." _

_"Yes, sir," both Tom and I replied. I glanced at him, puzzled, but he didn't return my look._

_At the end of the fifty minutes Tom and I approached Morrison's desk. "Explain this," he stated, placing two pieces of paper in front of us. Our tests. Mine read 'John Keating, 92.' Tom's read 'Thomas Helmer, 87.' I looked up, wanting to congratulate Tom but sensing that I had no reason to. _

_"One of you cheated."_ _Oh, no. It had been Tom. I cringed internally_. _I knew that he would be thinking of his failing grade. My own grade wouldn't be much affected by this, I had too many 90's. I took a deep breath and made a rapid decision._

_"It…it was me. I didn't study." I said. I saw Tom startle, surprised. Mr. Morrison looked at me suspiciously._

_"Mr. Helmer, is this true?" he asked Tom. Tom glanced at me from the corner of his eye. I nodded slightly._

_"Yes, sir." He reddened and stared at the floor._

_"Very well… you may go." The teacher nodded my friend out the door and faced me again. "So it was you, Mr. Keating?"_

_"Yes, sir." I answered, confidently, knowing that I could still revert to the truth but also that I wasn't going to._

_"I don't believe you. You have always been one of my top students."_

_"I had not paid attention last week, sir."_

_"Well, if you insist on this, fine. You will accept a failing grade for this test and serve detention for two weeks, beginning tonight." His eyes seemed to pierce mine, and we both knew. He knew I was lying and I knew he was being lenient. Any other teacher would have sent me straight to the Headmaster, and the least I would have seen was a suspension._

_"Yes, sir."_

_"You may go." I quietly exited the room and headed to my room. _

_I found Tom there, pacing and looking scared. "I'm so sorry, John."_

_"Tom, I helped you study!"_

_"I know!"_

_"And then you cheated off me!"_

_"I know…I'm sorry…I just…needed this…Look, I'll go tell Morrison it was me." He started to walk out and then stopped. "Oh God, John, you're not expelled are you?"_

_"Nope. Detention." As I said that he breathed a sigh of relief. I stood there, fuming but also sorry for Tom in some small way.  
"Okay. I'll be right back." He began to walk out again, shoulders slumped like he was headed to the gallows._

_"Tom, c'mon." I called, calming down a little. "That's crazy. _You _would surely get expelled. I'll just do the detention. You're not failing anymore, are you?" He turned back and looked at me cautiously._

_"No." Tom needed the good grade to go to Princeton. We both knew this and I knew his cheating ad been based on it._

_"Fine. Good. Don't mention it. Just…"_

_"What?"_

_"Just don't cheat off me again!" I burst out. He looked at me seriously._

_"I won't."_

_Tom and I avoided each other for the next few days. I went to Morrison's room nightly to write lines. 'I will not deceive.' I thought it funny that he had chosen 'deceive' instead of 'cheat.' On Friday I settled in, listening to the music coming from the Senior Common Room, wishing I could be there._

_After about half an hour, Morrison left, claiming he would be back in five minutes. I watched him go and put my pen down._

_Just after the teacher left, Tom popped his head in. Seeing that the coast was clear, he entered the room_

"_Hi, John." He greeted hesitantly._

"_Hi, Tom." I returned, stonily._

"_Look, I'm really sorry."_

"_I know that." He cleared his throat and I watched him, wondering what was about to come. _

"_We flatter those we scarcely know,  
We please the fleeting guest,  
And deal full many a thoughtless blow  
To those who love us best."_

_I looked up at Tom, puzzled. He started laughing. "Ella Wheeler Wilcox. You left your book lying around." He held up Five Centuries of Verse and I laughed, too. Tom sat down next to me and snatched a pen and paper. Morrison never returned and we sat in school desks writing 'I will not deceive' until one in the morning, stopping every once in a while to stretch out our hands and read a little poetry. _


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. And many thanks to a great friend who edits for me.

**Chapter Five: Live Your Dreams**

That week I received a letter from Will. My friends and I had kept correspondence during college, but as we all had careers and families letters became few and far between. Will had somewhat mended his old ways, pulling his grades up in time for college applications and becoming a well-known accountant. I remembered him when he kept a trumpet under his bed and would break into the gymnasium just to hear the reverberating tones.

* * *

_Dear John,_

_How is it back there at Helton?I heard McAllister is still there, I hope you're still giving him a hard time. Do you remember that time Tom and Max spilt coffee all over the common-room floor so we could go in and steal his essays? We kept bothering him for weeks as to when he was going to hand them back!I miss the good old days!_

_I can't believe you ended up a teacher, with all that talk about acting. I remember when you convinced our English class to put on Hamlet so you could play the lead part. But then, did any of us do what we said we were going to do? I'm an accountant, and I wanted to play at Carnegie Hall. You're a teacher. Tom's in the army. Max does something at a bank. Sam is a historian (although we all knew that was going to happen!) So much for carpe diem.

* * *

_

The letter went on, filled with news of his wife and their baby girl. But I kept reading the beginning: "so much for carpe diem"…I'd forgotten Hamlet. I'd rallied weeks for it to be put on, saying it was a completely educational exercise and it would help us learn. I had brought in the play and left it on our English teacher's desk until he had finally given in. I'd forgotten how determined I was back then, how determined we all were, to achieve our dreams.

* * *

Neil came to me that evening, knocking on my door and looking sad and solemn.

"What's up?" I asked him, trying to be colloquial.

"Can I speak to you for a minute?" he asked, nervous and fidgety.

"Certainly. Sit down," I invited. He saw that there were books on the chair and was slightly embarrassed, murmuring "Here, I'm sorry," as I took them from him. Something was wrong; Neil was always cheerful or at least conversational.

I offered him some tea, praying Dr. Nolan wouldn't come in. He accepted and looked around my room. It was the same as it had been twenty years ago, slightly messy with the hint of unidentifiable objects under the bed. "Gosh, they don't give you much room around here," he remarked.

_No kidding_, I wanted to reply but stuck to a slightly less critical response. "No, it's part of the monastic oath. They don't want worldly things distracting me from my teaching."

We took our seats once again and I saw Neil glance at my picture of Jessica, "She's pretty," he mentioned. I agreed, knowing Neil was avoiding something much bigger than my love life and taking pity on him for it.

"How can you stand it?" He suddenly burst out.

"Stand what?"

"You can go anywhere, you can do anything. How can you stand being here?" I considered this. The world wasn't actually as full of possibility as one thinks as sixteen, but I'd be damned if I told him.

"Because I love teaching. I don't want to be anywhere else." He looked at me as if this could not possibly be true, and I slurped my tea to avoid his pure gaze. "What's up?" I finally asked.

"I just talked to my father. He's making me quit the play at Henley hall. Acting's everything to me. I – but he doesn't know. He – I can see his point, we're not a rich family like Charlie's and we…But he planning the rest of my life for me, and I – He-He's never asked me what I want!" Seeing Neil stutter like this was almost as alarming as what he was saying; Neil was the best reader in the class. I understood his burden and could see only one possible way out.

"Have you ever told your father what you just told me? About your passion for acting? You ever show him that?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I can't talk to him this way." _If Dr. Nolan knew that a student can tell me, a teacher, what he can't tell his own father, there would be trouble._ But I had met Neil's father, on Parent's Day. I couldn't imagine telling him anything, either, but I also saw no other way out for Neil. I told him what was on my mind.

"Then you're acting for him, too. You're playing the part of the dutiful son. I know this sounds impossible, but you have to talk to him. You have to show him who you are, what your heart is."

"I know what he'll say. He'll tell me that acting's a whim, and I should forget it. That they're counting on me. He'll just tell me to put it out of my mind, 'for my own good.'"

"You're not an indentured servant. If it's not a whim for you, you prove it to him by your conviction and your passion. You show him that, and if he still doesn't believe you, well…by then you'll be out of school and you can do anything you want." Neil started crying, silently but full of despair. I longed to tell him to just forget his father because I knew how unmanly it was to cry at Welton. But I could do nothing.

"No," he wept. "What about the play. The show's tomorrow night."

"Well, you have to talk to him before tomorrow night."

"Isn't there an easier way." _You have no idea how much I wish there _was_ an easier way, _I thought. But I had to tell the truth.

"No," I whispered softly.

"I'm trapped," Neil said, trying to joke.

"No, you're not." Neil glared at me and I wished I could take it back. But in the same instant I wished more than Neil _would_ talk to his father and confront his fears.

* * *

The next day I asked Neil if he had told his father. He said that he had and that he thought his father would let him stay with acting. I was elated and he looked happy. He was still stuttering, but I chalked it up to nerves for his first Opening Night. I had arranged an "educational field trip" for Neil's friends and we were all going to see him in the play. I was ecstatic. Someone at Welton, for once, was living out their dreams. 


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own any Dead Poets Society characters or any of the plot. They are all the wonderful work of Tom Schulman.

Author's Note: I can't believe I actually finished. Thanks again to Hermione.

**Chapter Six: A Tribute**

_Oh, no! _I thought as I saw Neil being dragged away by his father. Charlie tried to go to him, to reason with him, but it was no use. I watched Neil leave, praying that for once things would turn out as they should.

But they didn't turn out as they should.

I was called in to Dr. Nolan's room at 6:30 the next morning. It was so much like the last time I had been here, in Senior year. The desk and the face glaring it me. Only then I had been surrounded by friends, while now I was all alone.

* * *

_"Uh oh," whispered Tom, as we saw the night prefect making the rounds with his flashlight. Suddenly it pointed directly at us, making me squint in the harsh white light._

_"Boy are you guys in trouble." Stated the prefect. It was a goody-goody Senior from the other class, one I had never liked much who lived to polish the Headmaster's boots. He led us to the main hall and told us to wait while he got the Headmaster. We all sat, fidgeting nervously but too afraid to talk. We saw Headmaster Peterson coming down the hall and stood up, automatically standing at attention while in our casual, beer-stained clothes, slightly drunk, and completely terrified. He walked past us in his office and a few minutes later called out "enter."_

_We heeded the call of doom, falling in in a straight line in front of his desk. "Where were you?" he started right off the bat._

_"In town, sir." replied Sam without hesitation, knowing, as did we all, that when the Headmaster asked you a question you answered promptly and truthfully._

_"Ah. And why were you there?"_

_"To have fun, sir" Max replied. Stupid answer, Max, I thought. I stood in the shadows and tried to avoid being noticed so I wouldn't answer as drunkenly as Max had._

_"Fun?" He contemplated. "You wanted to 'have fun'? Well, it's a good thing you already had it as the coming months will be anything but fun." The Headmaster shot back. "Let me make this perfectly clear. The only reason I am not expelling you boys immediately is because you have all been accepted to the Ivy League and it would affect the reputation of my school." He glared at each one of us in turn, I lowered my gaze and wished that we hadn't drank so much, while at the same time ecstatic we weren't expelled. "Your punishments are as follows: from now until the end of the year, you will serve community service every week day and on Saturdays. You are restricted to the grounds. None of you may attend social events such as dances, the school play, or enter the Senior's Common Room. If you break any of these rules even minutely you_ will_ be expelled. Do not think I don't mean what I say." He paused. "I will be writing to each of your parents" He glared at us all once again and announced, "You may go." We filed out silently and headed to our dormitory, escorted by the prefect on duty._

_Just as we were about to part, Will whispered "So, same plan next Saturday?" I elbowed him but he just smiled, and I smiled back, glad for once to be confined to Welton's walls and not forced to leave them._

_Two months later I graduated the school, left Hell-ton with a diploma in my hand, friends at my side, and family at my back. I had everything I could ever want, and I left the school the happiest I've ever been.

* * *

_

"Mr. Keating." Dr. Nolan snapped me out of my daydream and I entered his office.

"Dr. Nolan…what's wrong?" The Headmaster's face looked furious and I wondered what I could have possibly done to elicit that face. It couldn't have been about a simple tea kettle?

"It's Neil Perry…he…he…committed suicide. Last night." It was as close to crying as I had ever seen the headmaster.

"Neil?" I couldn't believe it. I sat there in shock for a few seconds, trying to block the thought from my mind. Meanwhile, the Headmaster regained his intimidating composure.

"I had a long conversation with Mr. Perry this morning. He is considering taking action against both you and the school. Therefore as of now, you are on probation. Your classes will be taken over for the following days. Let me warn you, John, there is not much hope for your case." I stared at him. "You may go." Shakily, I did.

* * *

I went to my room and shut the door, trying to accept the fate of Neil. There was a knock on my door and in came Iain McAllister.

"John, what's happened? The whole school is buzzing with news."

"Iain. Oh, God. Neil Perry killed himself." And that made it final, those four words. I sat down on my hard, uncomfortable bed and cried, unmanly though it was. Iain made me tea and went to his room to get biscuits, then sat down beside me and watched me cry, handing me tissues every so often.

* * *

It was official. I was fired. I had signed the documents, received my severance, all that was left was to actually leave. _At least Mr. Perry isn't suing me,_ I thought wryly. I packed up my belongings slowly, occasionally running across something that reminded me of Neil and then I would shake my head, still somewhat in shock. I looked out the window and saw Iain leading an obscure Latin course outside. I waved to him and he touched his hat. It was our only goodbye.

* * *

Later that day I went to my old classroom. I had been ordered to leave by three o'clock that afternoon and this was my last chore, the one I kept putting off. I walked slowly to the door, dreading entering it. I heard Dr. Nolan inside and my stomach turned to ice. I remember the time I had written lines in here for hours with a friend. I smiled, my stomach thawed the tiniest bit, and I knocked on the door. "Come," called the harsh voice. Oh, God. It was my Juniors. How could I have forgotten? My eyes strayed to Neil's seat and then up to the furious face of Dr. Nolan.

"Excuse me. I came for my personals. Should I come back after class?"

"Get them now Mr. Keating," growled Dr. Nolan, still blazing with anger. I hurried across the room into the antechamber beside it. I heard him discussing Dr. J. Evans Pritchard and thought of the irony of the situation.

"They're all ripped out, sir…" _It's a good thing they've already fired me_, I though, _because if not they would have for making students deface school property._ I glanced at the clock; it was 2:57. I had to leave. I took a deep breath and tried to walk as silently as I could. I was almost out when I heard a shout behind me.

"Mr. Keating! They made everybody sign it!" I turned around and stared at Todd incredulously. Dr. Nolan glared at me while walking over to Todd's desk.

"Quiet, Mr. Anderson," he barked.

"You gotta believe me. It's true." Todd was being so brave and looking so desperate that I had to say something.

"I do believe you, Todd," I assured him.

"Leave Mr. Keating." Dr. Nolan ordered me. _No! _I wanted to say. _No! You are crazy not to realize the great things about these kids. You keep them locked up when they've done nothing, you punish them with homework and lines and heavy wooden paddles._ But of course I said none of this, I just stood there, unable to leave yet unable to defend myself.

Luckily I had Todd to do it for me. "But he wasn't his fault!" he protested.

"Sit down, Mr. Anderson!" Todd reluctantly sat back down, unhappy but resigned. I recognized how much he had changed and was reluctant to leave him. "One more outburst from you or anyone else and you're out of this school! Leave, Mr. Keating." I had grown attached to these boys, to this school and classroom and all that lay beyond the woods. "I said leave, Mr. Keating!" I knew my battle had been lost and turned to go once more when a voice lit up the whole room.

"O Captain! My Captain!" It was Todd again, making the biggest stand he could. He stood on his desk and I remembered that day of class. _You must always look at things from a different point of view. _I turned and looked at him in pure amazement. Dr. Nolan was still yelling but it made no difference.

"O Captain! My Captain!" This time it was Knox. I saw how his determination had won him a girlfriend and he seemed to be attributing it to me.

Next Pitts stood on his desk, followed by others, including his best friend Meeks. I watched them in silence, accepting their humbling tribute. _Oh my God I'm a teacher._ Soon I realized that I was getting the boys in more trouble by staying. They knew it, too, but weren't going to back down. I had to leave, but not before acknowledging them. "Thank you, boys. Thank you." I said softly, and walked out the door.

* * *

I passed through the gates of Welton once again, only this time not a graduate. I was not happy or carefree. Still, I left with something. I left knowing I had made a difference in the lives of the students. Perhaps not in the way I would have hoped, but for some it was good. Just look at Todd. He would do great things. He would probably get punished, as I often had during my days at Welton, but he would survive. I wouldn't be surprised if I heard his name again one day, if I owned an anthology of poetry by Todd Anderson. I sighed and tucked this Welton chapter in with the others in a corner of my brain. I was taking the train to New York, to see Will and Tom. Sam and Max were coming tomorrow. I could picture us laughing and reminiscing and acting the same way we did when we were seventeen. 


End file.
